Poison in your glass
by storm-petrel
Summary: -She walks away before he can paint his lies into the air- Oneshot


Poison in your glass

_And he's looking at me now,_

_Why he can't see is that I'm looking through his eyes,_

_So many lies behind his eyes._

**Amy MacDonald **

'Don't go' **he** whispers into her cigarette-and-ash hair and the words are red as they wrap around her chest, squeezing and crushing and burning with a redred hurt.

She leaves, gathering her hastily discarded yesterday's-clothes from the floor and padding out the flat, one black stiletto swinging from her hand, (the other lost in the gutters somewhere between his flat and HQ) with black-as-deep-water hair cascading down her back, almost obscuring the trail of redred bruises that disappears below her collar-bone.

She sees** him** at the next meeting, refuses to catch **his** eye throughout, and **he** catches her arm as she goes to leave."Marlene," **he **whispers into her ear, "Don't go. I-"

She tugs her arm free and walks away before **he** can paint his lies into the air, before the poison-soaked words can stain the cigarette smoke and ripripandburrow their way into her redred heart, before the world turns ruby and scarlet and rains crimson droplets down around her, obscuring the grey she cloaks herself in; the grey of cigarette smoke, the grey of her eyes, the pretty grey colour that chases away the sunlight and the rain and the redred blood-

She's a Phoenix, she's **fighting,** _killing_, maiming, but it's for the _'greater good'_ that she paints the skies in a blood red glow, and if she is killed then her flame will join the palette of reds on the grey canvas that is their world.

And she hates it.

She longs for grey and craves grey and sometimes she fights for it instead _(because so much red is exhausting)_ because she's lost track of where the red ends and grey begins-

She fights like a wildcat, she fights in a glorious spray of red and vermilion and cherry, and she fights now, fighting for the grey to cover up the red, curse-for-curse, hex-for-hex.

She slits open her opponent with a flick of her wand (she's one of the good guys, but that doesn't mean she plays nice) and the blood gushes to the ground and it coats the lovely grey pavement with red-

Her nighttimes are red now, dreams soaked in blood that chase round her head until she's screaming and begging for the cool release of grey, so she forgoes sleep for nights on the town, the taste of firewhiskey a permanent fixture on her tongue, the smoke from her cigarettes floating around her like a cloak and the men who buy her drink after drink with a toss of her midnight hair.

But one night, **he's** there, all blue eyes and too red hair and battle scars complete, and she's _brave_ so she stays seated at the bar, steadfastedly fixing her gaze on the wizard who placed a firewhiskey in front of her and rewarding him with a lazy smirk, expertly flipping her hair over her shoulder. **He** comes towards her, manoeuvring his way through the drunken crowd towards her. She fights the urge to flee and channels the fear into anger, into redred rage because **he's** torn his way into her skin and her body and her head, even her dreams, but this is her sanctuary, her one grey place in the world of burning red, and **he's** **ruined it**, _invaded it_, spoilt it. She takes vicious pleasure in the uneasy look on **his** face, the hand resting on **his** wand pocket warily, the way **he** so clearly doesn't belong here, and knocks back the firewhiskey in a large gulp. It's quickly replaced by another so she shifts a little closer to the man, letting her hair expose her creamy white collarbone (she's no thief and she won't take without paying), and fighting the urge to turn and see the look of anger undoubtedly flashing across **his** face. She senses **him** slide onto the stool to her left but doesn't look, instead giving her benefactor a glimpse of cleavage as she leans across him for the bowl of peanuts on the bar-top. She hears **him** order a firewhiskey, knocking it back in seconds and ordering another, hears the clink of galleons on wood, the sound of a bottle being opened, the sloshing as it's poured into a glass and the thud of the glass being set in front of **him**. **He **drinks this one slower, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully before taking a careful sip, more mindful of the liquid fire chasing down **his** throat.

The man has thrown a drunken arm around her waist, nearly sliding her off the stool, but he bought her three drinks and she feels like she owes him so she lets him grope her for a bit before gently disentangling herself, placing his hands on the bar top and slinking out the door. Her benefactor stays seated, an inebriated smirk on his stubbled face.

She senses **him **behind her as she walks down the road, fumbling in her handbag for a fag and her lighter and carefully skirting around the pools of light cast by street-lamps. Pretending she doesn't know she's being followed she stops for a moment to shield the flame and **he** steps up beside her and asks for a light. She hands over the lighter without glancing **his** way, jamming the cigarette between red lips and sinking gracefully to the curb. **He** sits beside her (can't **he** feel the hostility rolling off her?) and they smoke in silence, her expertly blown smoke rings drifting skywards. **His** eyes devour the curve of her throat as she tilts her head back, mocking the stars with her insolently blown clouds of smoke obscuring their glow, her eyes dully reflecting their light.

She finishes her cigarette first, the soft glow of the end crushed under a black heel and ground into the dust. Flowing to her feet without a word and stepping into the road, one stride of her fishnet encased legs carries her away from the glowing light at the tip of **his** cigarette. **He **doesn't reach out to stop her as she leaves.


End file.
